kind. This was curious, because Hugh afterwards became, by dint of
trouble and practice, a quite remarkably distinguished and impressive
preacher. Indeed, even before he left the Church of England, the late
Lord Stanmore, who was an old friend of my father's, said to me that he
had heard all the great Anglican preachers for many years, and that he
had no hesitation in putting my brother in the very first rank.

However his time was very full; the parish was magnificently organised;
besides the clubs there were meetings of all sorts, very systematic
visiting, a ladies' settlement, plays acted by children, in which Hugh
took a prominent part both in composing the libretto and rehearsing the
performances, coaching as many as seventy children at a time.

He went to a retreat given by a Cowley Father in the course of his time
at the Eton Mission, and heard Father Maturin unfold, with profound
enthusiasm and inspiring eloquence, a scheme of Catholic doctrine,
worship, and practice, laying especial stress on Confession. These ideas
began to take shape in Hugh's mind, and he came to the conclusion that
it was necessary in a place like London, and working among the harassed
and ill-educated poor, to _materialise_ religion--that is to say, to fit
some definite form, rite, symbol, and practice to religious emotion. He
thought that the bright, dignified, and stately adjuncts of worship,
such as they had at the Eton Mission, were not adequate to awaken the
sense of the personal and intimate relation between man and God.

In this belief he was very possibly right. Of course the dangers of the
theory are obvious. There is the ultimate danger of what can fairly be
called superstition, that is to say giving to religion a magical kind of
influence over the material side of life. Rites, relics, images tend to
become, in irrational minds, invested with an inherent and mechanical